


In Each Moment, Grace

by Dasha (Dasha_mte)



Series: Unconventional Virtue [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:32:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasha_mte/pseuds/Dasha
Summary: Adam and Joe spent the evening munching chili cheese fries and talking about history. Nothing really ancient, but still a generous indulgence on Adam's part. Just before midnight, Adam was back at the karaoke stage: "Yellow Submarine." Joe wracked his brain, trying to find the message--some historic or linguistic pun, surely, but when Adam came back he had to admit, "Okay, I give up. What was that about?""Only the obvious," he answered, looking too mysterious to be anything but bullshiting."Right. So the submarine stands for... a lack of political transparency?""Subconscious desires. Really. Pay attention."





	In Each Moment, Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Not mine, no money. It's better this way.
> 
> Martha and Kitty betaed. Both of them were kind about it.

When Joe opened the door, Macleod was standing alone on the porch. A glance at the curb showed his car empty. "Where's Adam?"

"He's going to meet us there."

"Ah. Very clever. Much easier to claim he got lost that way. Just a moment." He shut the door, keyed the alarm, and then slipped out the door and locked it behind him.

"He'll be there."

Joe pocked his keys, smiling. "Of course, you're right. He was so excited. Wild musk ox couldn't keep him away. You shouldn't have let him out of your sight, Mac." He was at the bottom of the stairs before he realized that Macleod was just standing there, watching him nervously. It was highly suspicious behavior. "What?" he asked.

"I just....I thought we should have a few extra minutes. In case we needed them."

 _Oh. Damn_. "Do we need them?" He braced himself--there was no point in resisting if things were going to get ugly. He wasn't going to argue back, no matter what Macleod said.

"Maybe I need to apologize."

"To me? You already did. You...didn't need to."

"I--"

"Look. Mac. I made mistakes. You made mistakes--"

"You were only acting out of love--"

"So were you!" Joe pressed his lips together. He wasn't going to argue. "Look, this isn't about us. This is about Charlie. Right? Tonight is about him."

Macleod swallowed dryly. "Yeah. Right. Let's, ah. Let's go."

To Joe's surprise, Adam was waiting at the community center. He made up for this unusual show of cooperation, though, by griping steadily through the first forty-five minutes of the First Annual Charlie Desalvo Memorial Boxing Tournament: "They're children, fighting over nothing." And then, looking sidelong at Macleod, trying to piss him off: "I mean spectacle, yes, I understand spectacle. But if that's what you're going for, you should at least give them clubs. Or get some wild animals in there."

"Could you possibly be less consistent--" Joe started, his irritation finally getting away from him. "Oh! Great shot! What'd I tell you? The kid works a body just like Brasilio!" Adam winced at the cheering crowd and rolled his eyes. "And the two of you sponsored this...event?"

"Yeah," Joe said, resolutely enthusiastic. "Charlie would have loved this."

"He grew up here. He figured a place like this would keep the kids off the street." Duncan was trying very hard to be patient.

"Oh, yeah, I can see that's really important, you know, 'cause out on the streets you could get _hurt_."

There had been one argument after Charlie's funeral a year and a half before. If you could call Duncan's quiet shutting down an argument. They had not spoken for nearly two months after that--hardly a word, even when Joe and Amanda had rescued Macleod from Killian. And then Macleod had shown up at "Joe's" at closing. He had poured them each a scotch, and Joe, dazed with relief at the gesture, had matched him drink for drink for half an hour.

It wasn't a mistake he would normally make. It took a lot to get Immortals drunk. Keeping up was metabolically impossible. By the end of that half-hour, Joe, who had been so determined to keep his mouth shut, whispered miserably, "I'm sorry."

Macleod winced, still too sober to have that conversation, and poured himself another drink. "Don't. It wasn't your fault. I never thought it was."

Joe snorted, not believing the denial, not thinking straight enough to understand why the lie hurt.

Macleod downed his shot and pushed the glass aside. "I wasn't angry at you. I was angry at me."

"Right. Because I wasn't your Watcher, and I didn't interfere in the Game."

"This wasn't about the Game. Or you being my Watcher. This is about me choosing you over Charlie. And it wasn't your fault I loved you more."

Joe's heart sank, thinking that this would be it: Macleod wouldn't darken his door again. But Mac had only stared sadly at the floor for a moment and then said, "I was the one who stopped thinking. I was the one who made the mistake. I have no business making you pay for it."

Oh, yeah, Joe thought. That is not-- _not_ \--an improvement. Even not speaking had been better than this. But then Macleod had looked at him. The way he'd looked those last couple of weeks in Paris and the way he'd looked in Glenfinnan. And, like Paris and Glenfinnan, they'd wound up in bed together afterwards.

Joe resolutely pushed the past out of his mind. They weren't going to go there tonight. Tonight was just about young men _not_ getting into trouble, _not_ making bad choices, _not_ losing themselves. A gift for Charlie.

Adam continued to be unrelentingly unimpressed until the other immortal arrived. Almost as one, Macleod and Adam sat up alertly and looked around. Damn. This had been, technically, a night off. He didn’t want to spend it watching a fight someone wouldn't walk away from.

But when Macleod's gaze finally settled on someone on the others side of the temporary ring, he smiled. "She's a friend."

Adam immediately got up and collected his long coat.

Macleod tore his gaze away from the woman who was staring back. "Where are you going?"

"When she carries a sword, and we haven't been formally introduced, I get shy."

Joe realized that Adam was bolting and Macleod was heading across the room with an expression that said Joe had lost his ride home. _Damn._ Well, he had a cell phone. He could call a taxi.

A hand on his shoulder interrupted his thought, and Joe looked up to see Adam pausing mid-escape. "Are you coming or not?" he asked.

Joe nodded and dove into the crowd after Adam. It was just dusk when they broke free of the packed auditorium and stepped outside. A lovely, warm late summer evening. Adam had paused at the cluster of garbage cans by the door. He had the same amused, impatient, oversatisified look he'd had all evening. Instead of an acid comment, he just pointed across the lot. "I'm parked over there. Past the police cars."

"Ah," Joe said. "I wonder if Mac knows how exciting his evening is going to get."

And then Adam smiled. Or _not_ Adam. It was a Methos smile, the kind that made Joe's hair stand on end. "It looks like we're on our own tonight."

Joe nodded.

"I hate it when a woman comes into town. Nobody else will get a turn until she leaves."

Joe could not stop his head from snapping up before it was too late: he had to pretend to ignore his own reaction, not just the snippy Adam-comment that carried far too much canny weight beneath it.

"So? What shall we do? I hear there's mud wrestling over at 'Arnie and Jake's'?"

Joe laughed in surprise. "I hear monster trucks are playing the Omniplex all week."

There was an uproar behind them, and suddenly people began to stream out of the community center. "Ah," Adam said. "I see we left just in time. So, miniature golf? No, I have it. Karaoke."

"Ha. Good one."

"No, really. There's this great place over on Chelsea."

"Yeah. Because that's my first choice for my night off: singing."

"Right. You're a musician." He nodded affably as he unlocked his car. "The way I'm a classical scholar."

Joe wondered if he'd just been insulted. "I perform twice a week."

"And you're very good. But it's a cover. What you and I _really_ do is push around other people's meaningless paper work--"

"Gee, thanks."

"Except for tonight. When we're going to have some fun."

"Let's talk about the miniature golf."

But Adam had made up his mind, airily ignoring Joe's unfocused protests. Before he had quite worked out if it was going to be an odd evening or just unpleasant he was watching Adam clown his way through "When I'm Sixty-Four." An odd choice, and all the mugging and face-making was inexplicable until Joe realized that he'd been set up for some kind of inside joke. Very, very inside. Although there must be hundreds--thousands--of people who would _get_ the joke, there was only a handful Methos would share it with.

He trusted almost no one, and those few were probably more than he could safely afford. Joe stopped laughing. He got up and went over to the listing station. It was still early on a weeknight, and the line was short.

"Shall I quit my day job?" Adam asked when he rejoined Joe at the table.

"Absolutely. You have a great future as a comedian."

When it was Joe's turn, he sang "Every Breath You Take". He _performed_ it: straight face, perfect execution, earnest delivery. His eyes never left Adam, sniggering happily behind his beer.

The didn't quite close the bar. They spent the evening munching chili cheese fries and talking about history. Nothing really ancient, but still a generous indulgence on Adam's part. Just before midnight, Adam sang again: "Yellow Submarine." Joe wracked his brain, trying to find the message--some historic or linguistic pun, surely, but when Adam came back he had to admit, "Ok, I give up. What was that about?"

"What?"

"Was that some kind of...social commentary?"

"Only the obvious," he answered, looking too mysterious to be anything but bullshiting.

"Right. So the submarine stands for... a lack of political transparency?"

"Subconscious desires. Really. Pay attention."

Joe had just fallen into that one. He must be getting old.

He wasn't nearly old enough.

They rode home with the windows down. The streets were nearly empty. The air was a little muggy for that late in the year, but salty and sweet. They didn't speak until they were parked at the curb of the little one-story Victorian that Joe didn't really own because just as a matter of principle, a Watcher couldn't be tied down interviewing real estate agents when his target was rushing to catch a plane to Istanbul or Hong Kong.

"I have to say," Adam said, "This evening is turning out much better than it started. So far."

"So far," Joe repeated, trying to make it sound like, "no."

Moving slowly, Adam took Joe's left hand and eased his thumb across the palm. "So far," he purred.

Joe felt flushed and hungry. He also felt like a baby bird staring down a cobra. This was Methos, after all. He wasn't like other people. He wasn't even like other immortals. Desperately, before he could change his mind, Joe whispered, "Don't."

"Don't what?" He smiled so innocently and earnestly that Joe wanted to hit him. "Don't seize this wonderful moment? Don't hope? Don't love you?"

"Don't play with me." Unkind, but Joe didn't feel like being kind. Hopefully, it would also be insulting enough to drive Adam away.

"I'm not playing with _you_."

"Well, if this is about Mac, you can--"

"Don't you ever have one of those nights when you just don't want to be alone again?"

"The evidence suggests you can handle it. If you couldn't, you would have made a mistake by now."

"The evidence suggests that I take the rare and precious opportunities that present themselves; if I didn't, I would have given up by now." Joe closed his eyes, but Adam continued relentlessly, sweetly. "How many opportunities like you do you think there are? Never mind that I can trust you. Never mind that you can handle what you know about who I am. You're actually interesting. And I have a weakness for artists."

Joe almost laughed. He wasn't 'handling' anything and he knew it. He could barely breathe. "You said I wasn't an artist."

"I said it wasn't your profession."

Even in the dim light of the street, his eyes were unbearable--teasing, expectant, joyous. Joe wished he had just run away. "Damn it, Methos!" It was a plea, but he didn't know what he was asking for.

"Unbelievable." He sat back. "Do you know the last time it took me this long to seduce someone? I don't think Washington was even a state then."

Joe smiled. Adam was still holding his hand, but it wasn't a demanding hold now. Adam was still beautiful, and a sweet longing still saturated the interior of the car, but it wasn't thick enough to drown in any more. "Don't feel too badly. You managed to push all my buttons. I just...."

"Don't trust me." There was no need to answer that. Joe was silent. "You're brighter than you know." Adam smiled. "Sleep with me anyway."

Slowly, Joe nodded.

 

* * *

Giving in had been the tactic of last resort. Adam hadn't really thought he'd get anywhere with either flattery or honesty, and he had held out only a little hope for charm. Joe wasn't Alexa, after all. But making his intentions plain and _then_ letting go....

He had only meant to _pretend_ to let go, but even as Joe finally accepted his offer, Adam realized that this kid would not be manipulated without his cooperation. Adam had gotten used to being Joe's friend, used to being a researcher slowly picking out order from chaos in the files of an immortal no one had sighted in two hundred and fifty years. Then, after he'd resigned in the wake of the Shapiro mess, he'd gotten used to being a scruffy graduate student writing a dissertation on a fairy tale written in a language no one spoke any more.

There had been movies and beer and chess, and while Adam had managed to keep his guard up enough to avoid people who were after his head, it had somehow slipped his mind that Joe was not just middle management, but the senior watcher assigned to one of the most dangerous immortals still living. The man broke rules right and left, and when the Watchers balked, he rearranged the organization to suit himself.

Joe unlocked the door and then stood aside to let Adam enter first. "Age before beauty," Joe murmured, a transparent warning to behave himself. It would almost be funny--this infant warning Methos--if it weren't such a relief not to have to be responsible for orchestrating the tangle of bodies and hearts to come.

Joe hung up his own jacket but left Adam with his coat as he shooed him toward the bedroom, and Adam flashed on an etiquette book for entertaining immortals: 'it is considered gracious to let them keep their sword near the bed, even during romantic interludes.' He nearly laughed.

Joe turned on the lights and then did take the coat, tossing it neatly over the back of a chair. "I suppose I don't have to worry about shocking you?"

Standing so close, Joe had a small height advantage. Adam had to look up or back away. He could feel Joe's body heat. He imagined he could taste the salt of his skin. "Hard to say. You're awfully pushy for a kid. And I've led a sheltered life." It was an embarrassingly desperate grasp for humor. He was achingly hungry for the touch he knew was coming, but worse--gods!--he wanted to be loved tonight. He wanted to be held close and welcomed. It was a mistake coming here. He trusted Joe Dawson too much. Cared for him too much. Adam shut his eyes.

A single warm hand slipped beneath Adam's sweater and spread softly across his stomach. He lifted his chin for the kiss he knew was coming. It was light and curious, but steady. Adam swayed slightly and the hand on his belly slid around his waist. "Easy there."

"Joseph--"

"Changing your mind?"

"No. No...."

 

* * *

Adam woke much too early, but too warm to stay still. Joe was curled up against his back, snoring, and Adam stretched carefully in search of cooler sheets. In the light leaking around the heavy curtains, he could see his left wrist. There was no sign where the tattoo had been. There never was, but he had to admit laser removal was a hell of a lot more fun than scraping it off.

He had intended to rid himself of Adam Pierson as well. Move on, be someone else, get a little distance from all the loss of the past few years. But he had found that as bad as being a living reminder of Don and Allison and David and Alexa had been...giving up this life was worse. So. Here he was again. Never mind that Macleod was too dangerous to be close to. Never mind that the organization wasn't thrilled that he was still hanging out at "Joe's." He was being impractical and stupid and so attached he was probably effectively blind. And he was going to keep _on_....

Joe stirred sleepily as Adam slid out of bed, and he paused to whisper, "Call me later. If you help me with some shopping, I'll take you to lunch." Not sentimental, but Joe wouldn't have trusted sentimental.

He worried that if Mac had company it was too early to show up at the loft, but as he pulled up to think about it, Mac came out and waved. "I'm going for a walk. Want to come?"

"Where's your old friend?" They set off at an easy amble. It was going to be another warm day. If anything, the breeze was even sweeter than it had been last night.

"She didn't stick around."

"Really. How sad."

Macleod rolled his eyes. "It isn't like that." He thought for a moment. "Mostly. I'm not really her type."

"How are you not anybody's type?"

Mac took a swing at Adam's shoulder, missed. "Not her _type_. What about you? I didn't mean to chase you off."

"We were fine."

Without breaking stride or changing his expression, Macleod turned his head and examined Adam for a moment. "He's not Alexa."

The short statement was scalding, and for a moment, Adam couldn't cover the sudden burn. "Thank you. I'd noticed that, actually."

"I didn't mean it that way. I just don't want to see either one of you hurt."

"Thanks, but it's not any of your business."

"Both of you are very much my business," Macleod said gently, turning toward Adam and halting him with a touch.

"Look, I get the picture. If I hurt him, you'll kill me repeatedly."

"I'm not worried about that. He understands about us. Immortals. He...It isn't him. It's you. It's too soon. You're still too--"

Adam shoved the kind hand off his shoulder. "What do you mean, 'too soon?' It's probably too late. It always is, isn't it? I mean, there's never enough _time_ is there?"

"I'm sorry, Methos," Macleod whispered, not retreating. He imagined he understood Methos and thought his friend was teetering past his limits. It was sweet, in a way, but totally beside the point and as annoying as hell.

"Do you think it's any easier with you? Always running off _looking_ for people who want your head?" Adam folded his arms and moved closer, lowering his voice because the only alternative was screaming. "Look. Duncan. We both know I'm not brave. Certainly, I _never_ had the courage they do. But for right now, I'm not going to let the fear stop me. The idea of not _having_ any friends is every bit as bad right now as the idea of losing them. So give it up, because the subject is closed."

"Right. The subject is closed." Macleod eased meekly back and, after a brief moment staring at the sidewalk, began to stroll toward the park.

"So. Shame your boxing match was cut short last night. I take it the police cleared the place out?"

"Fire alarm," he said stiffly. He looked unsettled; it had been a mistake for Adam to show so much of his feelings. As often as Duncan nagged him to get involved in the world, the truth was he was more comfortable with the predictable, detached Adam than a fervent, volatile Methos.

Frankly, Methos himself preferred Adam. "Ah. Too bad."

"It's not just the boxing. The kids need something to do . . . to give them some discipline. Don't you understand?"

"No. I'm not a big fan of blood sports."

Macleod rolled his eyes. "Oh, dear me."

Adam thought about how much blood it would take to make his adrenal gland even take notice and changed the subject. They bought newspapers, the unspoken plan to stop for coffee and pastry at the café on the other side of the park, but something in the news made Duncan growl at the paper and charge back up the way they'd come.

"Problem?"

"I've got to stop her."

Adam looked at his paper for a moment, but he couldn't guess what had set the boy scout off this time. "Is she doing something dangerous? Or stupid?" he asked hurrying after.

"She's doing something wrong." He didn't speak again until the top of the hill. "I assume you don't want to come." But he smiled, to show that Adam wasn't unwelcome.

"No, actually. I stopped by to pick up my suitcase."

Macleod stopped. "You what?"

"I've got an apartment in Willoughby Heights."

He turned around and put his hands on his hips, trying to loom in preparation for an interrogation. "Since when?"

Adam smiled. "Since last week, actually. But I was having so much fun at your place, I wasn't in any hurry to move in. Joe's helping me shop after lunch. I hate those industrial towels these furnished places always give you."

Macleod opened his mouth and then shut it again. "You're taking Joe shopping for towels."

"Doesn't sound like much fun, does it? I guess it better be a pretty serious lunch."

"Methos--"

"Could you say that a little louder? I don't think people heard you in Los Angeles. Anyway, you don't have time for this. You have to go save someone from themselves."

"You're right." Macleod spun around and upgraded his fast walk to a jog. Adam sighed.

 

* * *

He could not leave Ingrid's body to be found by the police. She was already dead, legally speaking. She could not turn up dead again. He managed to get her into the trunk of his car before sagging, shaking, against it.

He could betray an old friend and still be practical. He wished he couldn't. Maybe if it had broken him to do this....

Another presence echoed against his quickening. Macleod glanced up once, but it was Methos, so he didn't bother to move. He hunched forward, trying not to shake. Maybe he should run; the old man would give him a hard time over this. The lecture would never end....

Methos sat beside him against the bumper of the car. When he finally spoke, it was only, "Are you okay?"

The numbness ebbed and whirled slowly through him. "Ingrid asked me something before she died."

Methos frowned, but his sympathy couldn't quiet cross the tiny distance between them. He said gently, "They usually do."

"She said, what was the difference between her killing them, and me killing her...."

"It's a good question," he said gently. "Right up there with chicken and egg."

"So what are you saying, there is no answer?" That didn't sound right.

"No, there is an answer. But the real question is whether you're ready for it." When it was clear that Methos wouldn't go on, Duncan managed a nod. "Stefanovich killed, and Ingrid judged him. Wilkinson killed, and Ingrid judged him....Ingrid killed, and you judged her."

 _Oh, god_. "So who judges me?"

Methos took a deep breath and stood up, "You hungry?" Duncan didn't move. Methos pulled him to his feet and led him to the passenger side of the car.

"I haven't...." Duncan murmured. "The body...."

"I'll take care of it."

That wasn't right. It was Duncan's problem, and he would take care of it. But for just now, he let Methos guide him into the car and position the seatbelt. They drove to a retro drive-in, the kind of place where they bring the food to your car. While they waited for the carhop, Methos made a call on his cell. It was a short conversation: "I have him," and "About what you'd expect," and "I will."

"You hate eating in the car," Duncan said dully when he'd hung up.

"I'd rather not take you inside. What do you want to eat?"

Duncan shrugged, so Methos ordered for him. Quite a lot of food came, but Methos only passed him a soda. "Drink."

Duncan held the cold and slightly damp cup in his hands, but he didn't drink. "So there isn't any difference. Between us."

Methos sighed. "I didn't say that."

Methos _had_ said that. Duncan closed his eyes.

"Tell me something. Why was Ingrid killing?"

Duncan had to swallow twice before he could answer that. "To stop tyrants. To stop murderers."

"No. Her victims were tyrants and murderers. She was killing out of guilt." He dug around on the tray attached to the window and produced a box of fries. "There's a difference between being wrong and being unbalanced."

"Which one am I?"

"Neither. Currently."

Duncan looked up sharply, but apparently that hadn't been some kind of snipe. He said, "Gee, thanks," anyway.

"Look. Macleod. You want to know what your problem is? Your problem is, you try to do the right thing."

"Don't start--"

"No. You will listen to this. The problem with trying to do the right thing is that sometimes you will fail. And sometimes you will be wrong. By trying to do the right thing, you doom yourself to getting it wrong sometimes. Which is all fine, if you can live with things not always working out perfectly every single time. But you can't."

"So--what? What's the answer? Don't try?"

"Those are your choices. Ingrid failed to kill Hitler. She could not cope with it. Now she is dead. You failed to save Ingrid. Cope with it."

Duncan closed his eyes. Ingrid. His comrade. His _friend_ , damn it.

Methos took the damp cup from Duncan's stiff hands and then leaned across to slide an arm around his shoulders. Duncan wanted to scream. He didn't. He sat quietly and waited while the horrible moments rolled over him.

 

* * *

How quickly everything had gone to hell. So damn fast and with so little warning. The world you thought you were living in could come and go in the blink of an eye. Not even two weeks before Joe had been furious and jealous of Adam. It seemed like another universe now....as though they had all been completely different people.

Adam and Joe had been at the new Willoughby Heights apartment, breaking in the bed. They had spent a long, sweet afternoon giving it a through use, and had reached the stage where Adam laid his head on Joe's chest and curled around him like a warm blanket. That had been surprising, actually, that Methos would cuddle. Joe knew that making comparisons was a bad idea; useless at best and potentially destructive... but he couldn't help thinking how different this immortal was. Mac was passionate and thoughtful in bed, but he wasn't affectionate with men in the same way he was with women. Methos--Adam--who ever he was underneath the games he played--was tender and demonstrative, hungry, almost, for every contact.

Adam stretched contentedly and grinned. "I do like these sheets." He sighed. "I like the twentieth century, actually. Everything is so nice and clean."

Joe, who generally thought of the twentieth century as being embarrassingly barbaric, slid a tickling hand along Adam's side. "You're kidding."

"No. Gad. It's easy to forget--now--how positively vile most of human history has been. I had to spend most of the Dark Ages in Asia. Europe was a sty." He sighed again. "It's been years since I had fleas."

Joe hugged him but didn't laugh. He didn't want to think about the filthier places he'd been. "I appreciate your...appreciation of hygiene," he said after a moment. He ran his hands through the soft, brown hair. "Very clean."

They lay together in silence for several minutes until Adam sighed yet again, this time not happily. "You know he'll be waiting for her tonight."

The contented mood collapsed. Well. It would have had to sometime. "We should be there."

A short pause, then, "I should."

"I disagree."

"Joe. Ingrid isn't particularly sane at the moment. She's killing innocents now. No matter how this comes out, Mac is going to have enough on his plate without thinking that he's endangered you."

Damn. Usually, Methos didn't bother manipulating people, and when he did, it was usually Macleod who caught the worst of it. Joe had gotten comfortable, let himself _forget_ just who had invited him to bed. "That was insulting," he said. "It was also bull shit."

"If you go, it will just remind him that this is all being recorded for posterity."

"Wow. That one hurt," Joe said, although it didn't. Macleod would know why he was there.

Methos picked his head up and propped on his hand so that they could see one another. "Joseph. I promise you, whatever Macleod does tonight, you are not going to understand. He shouldn't have to explain--"

"What? Just because I haven't lived through whatever it is I can't understand it?" For a moment, anger tangled the words in his mouth. _Of all the arrogant, obnoxious, shitty--_

No. No. If you lost your temper with Methos, it was because he wanted you to. Anger would turn off Joe's brain, and then he could be levered in any direction the immortal's whim selected. "Adam, I know him, and I can handle it."

" _He_ won't be able to handle it. I probably won't either. Joe. One way or another, this is going to get very ugly. Think about it."

"Jesus. Are you protecting my innocence?"

The only answer was a small, sad smile.

Joe shoved him off and sat up. "You patronizing, arrogant, bastard--"

Adam stayed where he was, neither fighting nor retreating. "Yes. All of that."

"How dare you--if you think I'm some kind of child, what the hell are you doing in bed with me?"

"I don't think you're a child. But there limits to how far _anyone_ can go in less than fifty years. I'm sorry--"

"Stop trying to piss me off. You've already done a fantastic job."

"I'll bring him to you tomorrow. He _will_ need you. But tonight, you need not to be there."

"It's my job to be there. Remember?"

Adam flinched at the tone, but didn't back off. "That is bull shit," he said softly. "You already know more about what's going on than any other Watcher could. The rules are different for you." He laid his hand on top of Joe's. "Even your superiors aren't pretending they're not. Access is almost a fair trade for secrecy and objectivity. I'm not endangering your performance."

Joe snorted. "They just can't afford another war." He had stopped Macleod twice from loosing his very competent violence on the Watchers. Joe was in many ways as much an embarrassment as an asset, but no one was willing to risk the possibility that his assignment would avenge him.

Adam looked right through him, no doubt seeing everything. "That's right. Remember that, please, while your pride is making you so unpleasant. You have what you _really_ want." He took a deep breath. "I am not pushing you aside and I am not telling you to go to hell. I am asking you for one night. Which you will give me, because you are _not_ a child and you do have a brain."

Joe had given in. Of course, he had given in. He wasn't arrogant enough to think he was a match for Methos. It was no consolation that nobody else was, either, including Macleod. He had sent the floater who usually covered the airport to cover the rally and spent the evening tending bar.

Methos was generous enough to call with an update. It was as hard to forgive him for being gracious as it was to forgive him for being a royal pain in the ass.

It was harder to forgive him for maybe being right. And maybe he was right. Joe was practically a baby--hardly even older than Richie, after all. There were some things he never would understand.

He understood making a choice between morality and love. He had done that too many times already, even if he was just an ignorant kid. But they hadn't been positive, that afternoon, just what choice Mac would make.

It must have been hell for Methos, watching Macleod kill a friend to protect mortal lives....

He'd been cold to Adam for a week, indulging in what was, in hindsight, a petty snit. He'd known what he was getting into, that night they'd spent singing karaoke and eating chili cheese fries. It was wrong to turn around and hate Adam for being exactly himself afterwards.

It had taken him days to even unbend enough to smile. It was almost embarrassing, how _pleased_ Adam had been when he finally did.

And then, so quickly after that everything had gone to hell. Cassandra showed up with her ugly, impossible stories and suddenly they were all hurting for the good old days when the only problem with Methos was that he was an unrepentant jerk.

There had not even been time to say good-bye, and now the reports were coming in. From The Ukraine. From Eastern Europe. From France. Joe had flagged everyone involved. There was not a Watcher on the planet earth not on the look-out...although he had not told his people everything, and he had issued a blanket White Warning for danger so that no one would approach _any_ of the assignments.

Reports arrived every two hours, although they contained only the sketchiest of details. He knew who was alive and who wasn't, and he was glad his imagination wasn't up to the task of filling in the rest.

It could not be true, anyway. What Cassandra said, what Duncan feared...it could not be true.

It might be true. It might be true, but Joe did not care, would not care.

He wished he had had a chance to say so. He wished he had not wasted a week in a pout because his mortal feelings were hurt. Methos was right; there was never any time.

(End)


End file.
